Desperado
by The-Queen-of-Fantasy
Summary: A rebel riding through, a waiter wants in. Desert Town AU based on the Rihanna song. Jim\OC


Her boots _thunked_ on the ground amidst the dust cloud rising from the scrape of her wheels, sunlight seething through every particle, but the leather was already so dirty no more could be absorbed. Hardened steps took the straightest path to the door of the diner, which stood out as a one-story castle among the shacks and shambles of the miniscule town around it.

Back toward the wall so that no one can sneak up on you; she'd learned that on her own and hadn't strayed from it since she did. The back booth in the monochrome diner called to her like a hoarse old geezer yelling for his fourth whiskey, and she figured she'd do the same when the waiter tossed a menu down to her level.

"What can I get for ya?"

The voice was startling with how clear it rang out along the tiled walls and she was so used to blocking out slurred speech that she instinctively glanced up. His cobalt eyes were dragging in the vast sky from outside that loomed so blamelessly in the face of the storm clouds she was bringing as she ran from something horrid far behind.

But his had a sliver of hope, dull and beaten down, but a sliver all the same that she was almost too unfamiliar with to recognize.

Instead of dwelling, she flicked through her wallet before pulling out a few crumpled bills. "Whatever this'll get me."

He scooped it up, nonchalant about being charged with her meal choice, and sauntered away in jeans that had been too big for years. He was back with a steaming plate before she realized that she'd been glaring out into the too bright, too dry desert outside, and he set it down with little grace in front of her.

"Jim," he deadpanned and pulled a few spare napkins for the table from his apron.

She spit her name back like fire and he barely blinked at the flames. Instead he gave a crude wink that promised more than a mediocre time in a room somewhere in the back. She didn't acknowledge.

The food was good, fuckin' great, that's what you could expect from a swathe of people who don't do much more than cook and read the paper. She was in jet black from head to toe and it was easy enough to smack toast crumbs away before downing the rest of the dark roast. Scrappy kids fight for any food but the scrawny ones are simply taught to eat all of what's in front of them. She'd volleyed between both before.

She'd already eaten, already paid, but as soon as that tanned face had turned away a second time she'd known she'd be staying longer. Diner kitchens are always in one corner of the building and he wasn't that hard to find leaning against one counter, hip cocked and inviting probably anyone in.

A twist of thick brows let on that he was surprised she was taking him up on it. All he needed was some tarot cards for a psychic business because as soon as she was near enough he said, "You're running. I'd like to."

She offered no answer and instead yanked his stupid request away with a forceful kiss, hand wrenching into his hair like a leash leading a parched lion to water. The grimy old cook saw them slip to the back, but who did he have to tattle to besides an uninterested wife and the wind?

There was a makeshift bedroom in the back for whatever working soul figured the closer to food the better. His hot breath roared against her mouth as she slammed the door and his hand was already clawing into her pants to tear them away.

She slammed a fist into his solid chest when his fingers skimmed over the sensitive bud, but he knew her better than to think that meant stop. Her ardent scratching at whatever of his skin she could reach only halted to undo his fly and shove him into the nearby chair. Her pants found a place at her ankles and then she was a scalding tempest kneeling over him, only interested in bringing undulating chaos to meet her own ends.

He greedily sucked her pulse point till it was stormy and sore and there was gritty sand between the rest of the bared bits of skin they had pressed together, scraping and scratching and leaving their own heated redness behind. She had carnal experience, he had more, and one throbbing thrust into her brought a burning hiss through her teeth.

Whatever he saw of himself in her he wasn't letting go of, and he implored once again with a face in her damply clothed breasts in time with the heaving rhythm. "Take me with you."

She finally grunted a vague yes when she vehemently spilled onto him and he reciprocated with stuttering hips, the half-assed blinding finish doing just enough of its job to satiate. Thinly-stretched wires and faded tape were all that held either of them together, so there wasn't much of their clothing or composure to piece back together.

"Grab a bag," she ordered, swinging an arm around his threadbare room.

He shook his head, not needing anything more than what sat on his lanky frame for the suddenly open road ahead of him. Instead he let his apron fall haphazardly aside, the last string tying him to the ragged speck of a town being undone. Where she was from she'd seen too much and it was obvious he hadn't seen enough, an itch that needed to be scratched before he scraped down to bone.

She strode out ahead of him, the boggy yells of the cook after his waning form rolling off of their waterproof backs. All other moisture evaporated in the angry noon sun and his eyes narrowed when she slid behind the wheel of what was probably a wife-beating dad's old Monte Carlo.

The cracked leather seats were scathing but he thudded into the passenger side all the same, dusky optimism seeping through the flaws. She sped away before his door was closed, clouding up the rickety air vents with more shitty filth that she was used to breathing.

He was used to it by the next town over.


End file.
